


Christmas Unbanishable

by James_Usari



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Music, Cute, Dorks in Love, Historical, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25508497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/James_Usari/pseuds/James_Usari
Summary: Just after hatching their devious plan, the boys 'celebrate' christmas in the early 17th century. However, can Crowley celebrate something as holy as Christmas? He can, if he can just convince himself he's devlish while doing so.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 13
Collections: Holly Jolly July: a Good Omens Gift Exchange





	Christmas Unbanishable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Waywarder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/gifts).



> A gift for Waywarder in Holly Jolly July, I hope you enjoy my gift to you! Thanks for the prompt! Three musical suggestions for reading this fic:
> 
> Part 1: At the Hope Theatre - Cantique de Noël, by Andrea Bocelli or Roberto Alagna  
> Part 2: Christmas Market - What Child is this, by anyone, really  
> Part 3: Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel - Original by Anthony J. Crowley, but best version by Peter Hollens

_Minuit, chrétiens, c'est l'heure solennelle,_

_Où l'Homme Dieu descendit jusqu'à nous_

The 25th of December 1640 was a day of immense contrasts. While the Hope Theatre in London celebrated Christmas with a faithful (if overly dramatic) rendition of the _Cantique de Noël,_ the Colony of Massachusetts Bay saw the printing of the first book in North America. A contrast, because the same people that printed the Bay Psalm Book where entirely opposed to the idea of Christmas. Christmas, or so the Puritans argued, was not mentioned in the Bible, and if it was not in the Bible, it should not exist. While this philosophy existed in England as well, it was gratefully only entertained by a few grumps in the Commons who did not know how to have a good time, and as such, London celebrated wholeheartedly.

_Le monde entier tressaille d'espérance_

_En cette nuit qui lui donne un Sauveur_

All this to say that a similar contrast existed within Hope. As the music ran through the theatre like a mountain river, shifting between solemn flow and sudden but slow crescendo, two onlookers watched and listened from the theatre balcony. On the insistence of Aziraphale, it had become a yearly occurrence to celebrate their new and secretive collaboration on the 25th of December. An obvious ruse to try to get Crowley hooked on Christmas. 

“So, let me get this straight” said Crowley, who never let these events go by without an opportunity to be bashful about Aziraphale’s choice of venue.

“You actually _enjoy_ these second… third… fourth-hand interpretations of the birth of Jesus?”

_Peuple à genoux, attends ta délivrance_

_Noël, Noël, voici le Rédempteur_

“It’s riveting, isn’t it?” Aziraphale answered. His left hand rested on its armrest, his right hand tightly clasped around Crowley’s knee. “You never know what happens next…”

“You do!” Crowley exclaimed, just loud enough to solicit angry gazes from the next balcony over. Crowley didn’t gave them any more attention, but silently cursed them so that they would always feel the urge to cough during important scenes. That, or he cursed the entire concept of a physical theatre to eternal coughing, something he never quite figured out.

“You made an ass of yourself” Crowley added.

“Yes, I did” Aziraphale said with a pleased smile, his facing lighting up at the fond memories of walking all the way to Bethlehem. It was the last bit of real exercise he had ever done.

_Le Roi des rois naît dans une humble crèche_

_Puissants du jour, fiers de votre grandeur_

“It was a good thing that _crèche_ was empty when we arrived, too” Aziraphale said, gently caressing Crowley’s upper leg. “A good cow made sure of that”

“That _ox_ ” Crowley said emphatically “was evil, and just there to scare of travellers. That I… he allowed a pregnant couple in was immaterial”

“Well, a good thing he was there anyway” Aziraphale replied. As his hand brushed past Crowley’s knee, the Demon shivered, but he did nothing to stop the Angel from doing as he pleased. That lack of acknowledgement was acknowledgement enough.

_A votre orgueil, c'est de là que Dieu prêche_

_Courbez vos fronts devant le Rédempteur_

“This is intolerable” Crowley blurted. “I’m sorry, Angel, but I am going to have to be very irreverent here. It’s in my nature”

For a short moment, Aziraphale was afraid the Demon was going to invent the custom of tomato-throwing. Crowley, however, shifted his body and laid his head down on Aziraphale’s shoulder, settling down and closing his eyes. Aziraphale leaned into him a bit, allowing Crowley to hold his head at a comfortable angle. To ensure stability (and only for stability), the Demon put a hand on the Angel’s right arm.

“Sleeping through a divinely-inspired song is the worst sacrilege, right?” Crowley muttered, his breath steadying as Aziraphale felt his own quicken.

“Naturally… dear…” he answered, his heart jumping when he called Crowley ‘dear’ for the first time. He reasoned that a bit of sacrilege could not hurt the holy day of Christmas.

_L'amour unit ceux qu'enchaînait le fer_

_Qui lui dira notre reconnaissance_

* * *

On the day Isaac Newton was born, the river Thames was solidly frozen. Water is a curious element, in the sense that it becomes slightly less dense when first becoming a solid. This allows ice to float on water, since the less dense water molecules are forced to the top by the continual bouncing of denser water molecules. This process, entirely unknown to the people enjoying that year’s Christmas market on the river’s thick ice sheet, would later be at least partially discovered by Newton. Another story that starts with an apple.

“This _has to be_ a Demonic invention” Crowley said, careful not to slip on the snow-covered ice sheet. His regular gait was already insecure on land, let alone on a smooth, slippery surface. Aziraphale had no problem, since walking on ice was just another way of walking on water, an activity that came naturally to Angels. They would have been natural figure skaters, had they known how to dance. 

“I will have to check Downstairs” he added, looking at one particular stall. This one sold tiny houses carved from wood, and tiny people as well. If you wanted, you could buy a whole village from them, which seemed to Crowley like a clever marketing ploy.

“Oh no, this one is on us” Aziraphale said delighted, taking a notepad from his thick winter coat. Peering over his shoulder, Crowley noticed that the Angel had a list of town buildings, some of them preceded by checkmarks. Aziraphale was still lacking a bakery and a well, Crowley noticed. Aziraphale looked through the stall as if he was inspecting a cargo of diamonds, inquiring with the vendor if they were in the possession of any bakeries. The vendor had to disappoint him, and soon the two were on their way again. Crowley almost slipped and fell as they turned around, but Aziraphale was just in time to secure his arm.

“There… dear…” he said, his heart almost exploding as he called Crowley ‘dear’ for the second time.

“Thanks” Crowley said, dusting himself off and planning to walk off again.

“Nooooo” Aziraphale interjected, still holding on to his arm. Being firmly planted on the ice, the Angel could not be budged from his position, causing the Demon to almost slip again.

“You better hold on as long as we’re on the ice. Wouldn’t want another slip-up”

At first, Crowley’s arm felt tight under Aziraphale’s, but as they walked on, and the other market-goers did not seem to mind, the Demon relaxed. Their arms locked, they walked between stalls and people. Despite his earlier misgivings, Crowley could not help but enjoy at least the copious amounts of food that were being sold. Fried goodies, pastries and warm wine were offered from every direction. At the end of the afternoon, as the street lamps were being lit throughout London, Crowley and Aziraphale made their way home again, each armed with half a hot pretzel.

The streets of London were covered in a thin layer of snow, as if the city had been covered in powdered sugar. Behind every window was an advent candle burning, and pine wreaths decorated every door. Red and green ribbons hung from wherever they could be secured, and walking through the city was like walking through an old wintery forest, with candles burning like fireflies. The city seemed deserted, everyone who could having found the comfort of their homes and families. From every house emanated the singing of different carols, turning the streets of London each into a very own theatre. Even Crowley could not fail to realise this, and for a moment his mind wandered away from the future, and from the past. Aziraphale and him were encapsulated in a dark blue orb filled with lights and wonder, colour and music. Crowley closed his eyes, trusting Aziraphale to take them where they had to go, not worrying for a moment with the Angel’s arm to guide him.

When he opened his eyes, he had to adjust for a moment. The advent candles had gone. Now, the only lights were the stars wheeling above, the torches burning on the frozen Thames, and the distant fires of London. A cold wind blew down from the north, but over the course of their walk Aziraphale had pulled him closer already, as to warm them both.

“What’s this?” Crowley wondered aloud. He did not recognise the large gardens they found themselves in, nor did he know there was a place from which you could overlook London.

“I didn’t know there were hills in London…” Crowley added to his doubts.

“Call it a miracle” Aziraphale answered deviously. “A trick of the eye, caused by refracting light by means of…”

“Oh, shut up” Crowley replied, squeezing Aziraphale’s arm. “It’s beautiful”

“It’s Christmas” Aziraphale answered. “All that singing, all the markets, the food… It’s not about Christ, or Mary, or the ox and the donkey. Not really. It’s about the emotions. Contentment, excitement, ease of mind, faith, trust…”

“Love…” Crowley blurted, straining his neck to the brink as to not look at Aziraphale. The Angel did not let go, however, and for what felt like 6000 years, they stood there, looking over an impossible view of London from the palace grounds at Whitehall, which would some decades later be developed into the Soho quarter. 

“I have to go” Crowley said suddenly, feeling Aziraphale’s fingers tighten around his arm. The view of London faded as if covered by a thick fog, and before long, the little park was just that; a little park in the middle of a field, only illuminated by the light of the moon.

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale” he said. “But it’s not for me. I’m… I’m not supposed to…”

“I understand” Aziraphale said. He did understand. The nature of a Demon was not to melt at the sight of city lights in the distance, or the soft singing of children’s choirs. He could not help his nature. And yet, it pained Aziraphale so much to hear Crowley actually say it. Whenever they were silent, he could still pretend that Crowley enjoyed their walks, the music, the Christmas markets. He could pretend that they could, perhaps, stay together for longer, and go through the long life of Angels and Demons together. But it was not the nature of Crowley, and Aziraphale would never be able to force it from him, nor could he himself change.

“There is no need to elaborate” Aziraphale said, letting his arms slip from Crowley’s grip. For a moment, he looked at his friend, knowing that as soon as he turned his back, this perfect evening, and the perfect life that came with it, would disappear forever. He could never pretend again. Then, he turned his back, and walked away into the darkness. Crowley looked after him, immediate regret filling the Demon as his friend disappeared into the dark. Was it true? Did his nature not allow him to enjoy all these emotions? It should have been true. He was a Demon.

And yet, if that was the case, why did he feel them so?

* * *

On the 25th of December 1656, Aziraphale made the pilgrimage from the market to his house. A regular market, this time, selling cabbage and fish and fabrics. The city was covered in ice, but lacked all the other trappings of the season. Even the candles burning from the roadside lanterns had lost their warming sheen. No red-green ribbons were to be found anywhere, and there was no singing of carols. Nor where there candles burning behind the windows.

As Aziraphale turned into the street where he lived, he almost bumped head-first into a squad of red-uniformed soldiers. Two were armed with muskets, while four others had swords hanging from their belts. From beneath his morion, their leader looked up and down at Aziraphale, and pointed at his bag.

“What are you carrying in there?” the soldier barked, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.

“Just some groceries” Aziraphale answered truthfully, but this did not placate the soldier.

“Open her up” he ordered. As Aziraphale did so, he peered inside, inspecting the contents. There was nothing festive about the contents, just a few sausages and some cabbage for a stew. The soldier looked disinterested and disappointed, but he still grabbed the sausages from the bag.

“We cannot risk you going home and turning this into a festive meal” he said grinning, happier with the power trip than he was with the actual sausages, which were not enough even for his small platoon.  
  
“Now, piss off”

Aziraphale managed to hold back the tears until the soldiers could not longer hear him, but then the floodgates opened. Tears streamed down his face, obscuring his vision, making it almost impossible for him to find his own front door. He silently cursed Cromwell, then quickly took it back, frightened at his own lack of self-control. Those few grumps in the Commons had turned into the majority, simply by virtue of expelling all those who could have opposed them. What was true for the Colonies was now true for England as well: Christmas had been banned.

With his vision impaired by tears, Aziraphale could never have located the key hole, had it not been for a tiny light shining right above it. Curiously, a faint light, shaped like a mix between a star and an ice crystal, shone just bright enough to notice from up close. Alarmed, Aziraphale looked in through the windows, but his house was empty. The living room was empty, as was the kitchen. Entirely undecorated. Entirely unlike Christmas.

Aziraphale opened the door and entered. As soon as he closed the door behind him, a pleasant odour crossed his path. His house was warmed by his hearth, from where he could hear a fire faintly crackling. He stepped into the living room, which was alive with candle lights and the faint smell of pine. Wreaths galore hung around every cranny that could support the weight of one. Aziraphale, his eyes twinkling with so many lights, let his coat slide off his shoulders as he walked towards the kitchen. The closer he came, the more he could smell the different odours, drifting towards him and pulling him in closer.

In the middle of his kitchen now stood arrayed a giant oaken table. It was covered with foods of every kind and flavour. There was chicken, gravy, sausages, vegetables, pies, wines of every colour and description. There was warm bread still steaming from being baked, and even foods that Aziraphale could never have imagined, from all across the world. And the greatest snack of them all was seated on the other side of the table, grinning devilishly as Aziraphale’s mouth dropped.

  
“How…” the Angel began, but he could not finish.

“I reckoned” Crowley said, waving a drumstick around as if he were conducting an orchestra. “With Christmas being deemed illegal and unchristian, what could be more sacrilegious than celebrating it?”

Aziraphale, not quite recovered from the shock, picked up his coat and hung it over one of his chairs. As he recuperated, the frown that had dominated his forehead turned soft, and a smile curled his lips ever so slightly.

“And Downstairs agreed with you?” Aziraphale asked, taking his seat at the other end of the table.

“My report was extremely convincing” Crowley replied. With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale’s glass filled with wine, and in the background music started to play.

_O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free_

_Thine own from Satan’s tyranny_

_From depths of Hell Thy people save_

_And give them victory o’er the grave_

_Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel_

_Shall come to thee, o Israel_

“I don’t know this song” Aziraphale said, carefully listening. “It’s beautiful”

“Thank you” Crowley replied, smirking. “It’s been a while”

“You wrote this? You wrote a Christmas song?” Aziraphale said wonderingly.

“First, this song slightly predates even my Fall, and secondly…” he turned his fingers as if twisting a button, letting the music play louder. “It’s in a minor key so it’s gloomy”

“Sure” Aziraphale said. “Is there more that I don’t know about you, after almost 6000 years?”

“Want to find out over dinner?” Crowley replied, gesturing towards the food, the weight of which was bending even the thick oak of the table. “Nothing special, just getting to know each other in a private way. There was a name for that, but I don’t remember… Something with D… It’s also a fruit”

Aziraphale waved away his remarks, his angelic face starting to heat up and blush. “Immaterial” he simply answered. His eyes wandered away from Crowley, and were caught by two brightly if inexpertly wrapped gifts, the size of a tiny wooden bakery and a tiny well. If possible, Aziraphale turned even redder, and he could only look up at the ceiling, his eyes welling up with tears again. These tears, however, reflected a thousand candles, and vibrated with the music written by an Angel over 6000 years before. There, attached to the ceiling, he saw two tiny prickly leaves with red berries.

“Is that… Holly? Whatever is it doing there?” he wondered aloud. He looked back at Crowley, who suddenly had his face mere inches from his own.

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” said the Demon who was about to invent the holly tradition.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Although starting in 1644 under the Short Parliament, Christmas was enforcably banned in 1656 following legislation from Lord-Protector Oliver Cromwell. In his puritanical view, which already saw the banning of sport and theatre, Christmas was just another heathen feast that was not worthy of Christian celebration. After all, the only holy day mentioned in the Bible was the sabbath, the Sunday. Before 1656, Christmas was more festive than we might imagine, and was often celebrated mostly with drinking and wild partying, taking after the heathen festival of Saturnalia. 
> 
> After the restoration of the monarcy in 1660, the holiday remained in disrepute until the 19th century, when it was more solemly celebrated. This all to say that Crowley would at least be comfortable celebrating Christmas until the 19th century, and it is my firm belief and conviction that by that time he was already comfortable enough with the idea to keep celebrating it after.


End file.
